Flashes In Between
by AQotL
Summary: Companion to "Flash Before Your Eyes." A collection of side-stories that couldn't quite fit into the main plot. First up: June and Chuck, pen pals.


**A/N:** I promise, _Flash Before Your Eyes_ Chapter 4 is in progress. I just got a little sidetracked by a couple recent developments in my life and, well, this story.

There were a handful of ideas that I came up with that I unfortunately wouldn't be able to fit into _FBYE_ in their entirety—I've mentioned some in passing and in author's notes already, and there are still others I'm considering. I was originally just going to leave them be, but while writing a review reply to Quinis I suddenly became very invested in developing the backstory to June and Chuck's correspondence (as mentioned in _FBYE_ Chapter 3). Before I knew it, I had about 1000 words written, and a few days later I had this complete chapter.

My initial plan was to finish _FBYE_ and all the other stories I plan to include in this collection before posting, but I was too eager to wait. I _am_ going to finish Chapter 4 before I release any other selections for this piece, though, and there's going to be more of a relaxed publishing schedule for this as opposed to how fast I've been going through _FBYE_.

Enjoy the first installment of _Flashes In Between_! (Featuring June, Chuck, some letters, and Bryce Larkin, human disaster.)

 **Corresponding**

The first letter arrived on a particularly dreary day, encased in plain, practical stationery that certainly didn't improve the mood.

The emotionless typeface acknowledged the recipient as _J. Ellington_ on the front of the envelope, and that alone led June to believe that the message was an impersonal ploy for business even before she noticed the "Carmichael Industries" logo in the upper-left corner. The private security firm must have thought that an elderly woman with quite the fortune would require their services more than the average person, and would also be capable of covering any fees for said work.

Still, June loved a good mystery, and while she was certain her hypothesis was correct, there was no way of confirming it if she didn't read the letter inside. So she flipped over the envelope, only to be surprised by a wax seal in a deep shade of red. It was a stark contrast to the utilitarian front—June would have gone as far as calling it quirky, if the emblem (meant to look like a Converse sneaker) stamped into the wax was any indication.

Even more intrigued, she pried the flap open and carefully removed a bundle of neatly folded sheets of printer paper. Contrary to the typed-up addresses on the envelope, the message itself was handwritten with loose and casual lettering.

 _Ms. Ellington,_

 _I apologize for the bland and businesslike choice of stationery, but I had to keep certain prying eyes away from my actual intentions for this letter—which, I should add, are nowhere near as nefarious as that sounded. My friend just has a tendency to snoop around (occupational hazard) and I'm not sure how well he would take it if he learned that I was reaching out to you._

 _You may have heard of my company; if so, I'm sure you're aware of what we do. A few months back, my team picked up an assignment that led us to Paris. While I can't delve into too many details for confidentiality's sake, we completed our mission, but came back with an additional passenger—an old friend of mine by the name of Bryce Larkin, who'd had the misfortune of being held captive by the antagonists whose plans we foiled._

 _I know that Bryce's name isn't familiar to you, but I promise to explain what I can and why I'm writing. You see, Bryce has worked for the American government in some capacity for nearly fifteen years—just a few years less than I've known him—and his job has presented some dangers that he… hasn't survived unscathed. On more than one occasion, I believed he was dead; finding him in France was how I found out he was alive after watching him die in front of me years earlier._

 _It took a while to get him to open up after we returned, but I soon learned that he'd spent the years since his "death" on an undercover mission as a criminal with government ties. I was able to confirm the basics of that story with a little bit of research, but I didn't get all the details until later on._

 _He told me a bit about the work he did under the guise of a con man, both helping and hindering federal investigations. He was enthusiastic in his retellings of his adventures, but that was nothing compared to the emotions in his voice when he talked about the people he'd met, befriended, and even_ trusted _._

 _Bryce told me a long time ago that he only had one friend in this world, even though I had resented him for years due to decisions he'd made. I'm not sure if he still believes what he said back then, but I watched how his face lit up when he told me about his partner-in-crime and how he liked to finish off Bryce's wine collection while working on their latest masterpiece. He had a certain tone of pride when he mentioned the FBI agents he'd worked with, who playfully teased him and often reacted in annoyance to his antics, but still accepted him and his abilities. There was also a deep fondness for his partner-in-crime-_ solving _and his wife—I think he looked to them as the family unit that he never really had._

 _Most of all, I remember when he mentioned the kind woman he'd met at a thrift store, who was pleased to see that he appreciated the donated suits and, in an even greater act of generosity, had offered him a place to live. He had nothing but wonderful things to say, like how she was the first person who didn't see him purely as a criminal, and how she wasn't easily fooled and could hold her own on a con or in the face of danger. I think that was the first time I'd heard him so awed and humbled._

 _But as soon as that all came out, his liveliness crumbled when he confessed what he'd had to do to these people he respected and cherished—how he'd had to fake his death and run from the life he'd built as Neal Caffrey._

 _I'm sorry to tell you all of this in writing, but Bryce (I'm not sure how he feels about being called Neal right now, despite it being his birth name)… Bryce is_ complicated. _He clearly misses you and the Burkes and all of his other friends in New York, but somewhere along the way he got the idea that it was better to go solo in life, and the fact that he had to give up everything he'd built as Neal seems to have confirmed that for him. I know he's left some verification of his survival for Mozzie and Agent Burke, but I haven't been able to get him to do much else beyond that, which is why I'm reaching out to you in his place._

 _I'm not sure_ —the word _'if'_ had been hastily scribbled out— _when Bryce will be ready to deal with his life as Neal, but if you'd like, I can update you on how he's doing from time to time. My wife and I have hired him for freelance assignments for Carmichael Industries, and when he's not on a mission or traveling for self-reflection, he has a guest bedroom at our house. It's not much, but I thought you might want to know that he still has someone looking out for him._

 _Regards,_

 _C. Carmichael (Chuck)_

 _P.S. I managed to salvage this from a coloring session Bryce had with my daughter while he was babysitting her a few days ago. I thought you might like to have it._

Shaken, June had taken a seat on the sofa partway through the letter, and she sat up straighter as she shifted the papers to reach the last one in the stack. If she hadn't already believed the information on the pages, then this would have certainly been the turning point.

The paper was a bit crumpled, as if someone had meant to discard it, but the creases did nothing to obscure the beauty of the cityscape sketched out before her. It was a familiar sight—one enjoyed from the balcony off of the upstairs apartment, which she had been too grief-stricken to visit in recent months.

It took a moment, but June collected herself enough to stand up from the sofa and start up the staircase along a familiar path, letter in hand.

Despite knowing that the former occupant was merely indisposed due to his own internal conflicts and was not actually deceased, June refrained from glancing at the items decorating the room, exactly where they remained since Neal ( _always_ Neal) left. She had more pressing concerns at the moment.

It was still drizzling when she swung open the glass doors and stepped onto the terrace, but she noticed a small patch of sun peeking through the gloomy sky as she lifted the sketch in comparison to the view before her.

June had never had any doubts in Neal's skills as an artist, but the accuracy of this piece—done entirely from memory—was worthy of praise. More than that, it was a message of hope, a bright spot in the dark that he could follow once he made the conscious decision to do so. New York _and_ June would be waiting to welcome him.

In the meantime, June figured she should look for her best stationery and perhaps research some good codes to use in her correspondence with Chuck, if they were to keep it a secret from Neal for the time being. She spared one last smile at the skyline before closing the door to the balcony once more.

(The next morning, she enjoyed a nice cup of Italian Roast in the open air as she penned her first response.)

. . .

Writing to June Ellington had been a risk for many reasons, but Chuck still took it, and he was glad he did. With the way Bryce had been acting ever since Team Bartowski had recovered him and he'd clued Chuck into his life as Neal Caffrey, Chuck knew that someone had to do _something_ , and since Bryce was still brooding, well, then it was up to Chuck to be the responsible adult and step up to the plate.

He hadn't exactly expected Ms. Ellington to reply—he'd _hoped_ she would, if only because it would open a channel between Bryce's two lives that didn't require Chuck to forcibly pry the information out of his formerly dead friend, but he wouldn't press if she didn't. Thus, he was pleased to find a small envelope made from high-quality paper in the Carmichael Industries post office box, the front side addressed to _C. Carmichael_ in an elegant script.

Luckily, Bryce was off on one of his soul-searching trips that week—his last check-in was in Milwaukee, though Chuck still had no idea what drew him there besides maybe the art museum—so Chuck was able to open the reply without worrying about keeping it hidden.

 _Mr. Carmichael,_

 _It was a bit of a shock to get your letter and to read the information within it, but thank you for sharing it with me. I have no ill feelings towards our mutual friend for doing what he thought he had to, nor do I resent him for his resistance to reconnect. It sounds like he needs to break out of a harmful mindset, and while I'd like to be able to offer support, I understand that he may need some distance first. If anything, I'm glad to know that he has others helping him where I cannot._

 _I will give him the time he needs, but if your offer still stands, I would appreciate hearing how he is doing. In return, I am more than willing to provide whatever assistance I can, such as shelter if your work ever brings you to my area. That invitation extends to our friend as well, should he decide to return._

 _Thank you, and I look forward to hearing from you,_

 _J. Ellington_

Chuck grinned in triumph as he slid the card back into the envelope. It was a risk worth taking indeed.

. . .

It only took a few letters for the two unlikely pen pals to fall into a comfortable and more casual correspondence. As promised, Chuck kept June updated on Bryce's condition and declassified versions of his various shenanigans (because he had somehow had a run-in with ninjas in Milwaukee, of all places), while June was kind enough to share a few stories about Neal that Bryce had failed to mention. It was evidence enough that Chuck's plan to make a connection between Bryce's two lives had succeeded, and it was running quite smoothly.

The only real threat to their exchanging of letters was the subject himself. Stealth wasn't usually a concern, since Bryce was away from Burbank more often than not, but with the holidays coming up, he'd finally taken the Bartowskis up on their offer of the guest bedroom and planned to stay through the New Year. Chuck normally wouldn't have taken issue to this—it was one more person to watch Steph when Chuck and Sarah were called out for business, and in turn it was _much_ easier to keep an eye on Bryce—but with Bryce as a longer-term guest at the house with the red door, nothing was going to stay hidden for long.

Case in point: Chuck thought he had _finally_ found a moment of peace and quiet to write a response to June's latest letter and to thank her for the gifts she'd kindly sent to the Bartowski family (as well as Bryce, and Chuck hoped that whatever was in the package wasn't too revealing of the sender's identity), when he was rudely jerked out of his thoughts by the prickling hairs on the back of his neck and a low murmur close to his ear.

"So, does Sarah know you're writing letters to another woman?"

Thankfully, Chuck was able to lower the pitch of the yelp that escaped his throat as he vaulted off the couch in bewilderment, scattering the papers laid out on the coffee table. Once he managed to get his heart rate down, he leveled a withering glare at Bryce, who was grinning a little too triumphantly as he leaned over the back of the couch.

"Weren't you supposed to be watching my daughter, Larkin?"

Bryce cocked his head in surprise. "Wow, you're not on your game today. Morgan and I swapped because I had some errands to run—he and Alex have her over at their place watching Disney movies, and I'm taking her to the park tomorrow. We discussed this last night."

Chuck rubbed his forehead—that sounded vaguely familiar. It still didn't explain how Bryce got in the house without him knowing, and he voiced his concern.

The mischievous smile was back. "Crawled through the window in my guest room."

"Any particular reason _why_? There's a perfectly functional door here. If you forgot the spare key, you could have knocked."

"Oh, no reason, just wanted to catch you off guard because I figured you were hiding something," Bryce responded nonchalantly as he flipped over and onto the couch (much to Chuck's protest). "And would you look at that, letters from the mysterious 'J'. Seriously, does Sarah know about this?"

Chuck slapped Bryce's hand away from the letter he was reaching to retrieve, grabbing it for himself instead. "Yes, she's well aware that I've been exchanging letters with a friend." This was true—even though Chuck was the main point of contact with June, Sarah had read all of June's letters and had even sent a few of her own. "I don't see how this is any of your business, though."

Bryce leaned back against the couch and held up his hands in surrender. "Just curious. You're being oddly secretive about this whole thing, that's all. When you brought in yesterday's mail, you dumped everything on the counter before running off to your study with a single envelope."

Okay, Chuck had to admit that that hadn't been the smartest move. Bryce had been sitting on the living room floor—the latest "client" for Steph the hairdresser, if the spectrum of colorful clips adorning his head were any indication—when Chuck had returned from the post office, so he had panicked a bit.

To make matters worse, it looked like Bryce was starting to piece some things together. "Is there a reason why you don't want _me_ to know about your pen pal?"

Chuck could tell that there was no easy way out of this one. On the one hand, he could flat-out tell Bryce to drop it, but seeing as he was a master of stealing things as both Neal _and_ Bryce, the truth—as well as the previous letters that Chuck had managed to hide—would be out by the end of the day. On the other, though, Chuck could go straight for the inevitable and confess everything, but what then? How would Bryce take knowing that his longtime friend had been reporting on him to his former landlady for months, effectively linking his two lives before he decided to do so himself? It was all in his best interest, but Chuck still felt guilty at times for going behind his back.

He'd tell Bryce at some point, but for now, he'd go with an alternative option. "J is a client and informant to whom I've offered a confidentiality agreement. We've been writing and exchanging intel for the last few months, and J has a safe house for us if we ever need it. A lot of things are need-to-know only at the moment, and, well…"

"Yeah, I get it," Bryce replied, seemingly accepting the response. "I'm only freelance, so I probably don't have the clearance or the need to know a whole lot." He pushed himself up and off the couch at that. "The one thing I _do_ need right now is coffee. I feel like I'm about to crash."

Glad to have evaded that potential disaster (for the time being, at least), Chuck discreetly gathered the rest of his materials as he pointed to the kitchen counter. "I made a fresh pot not too long ago. Help yourself."

Bryce nodded his thanks and headed over to prepare a mug for himself. As he was pouring the coffee, he hesitated, nose crinkled as if trying to catch a whiff of something. He did it again as he brought the mug to his lips, and by the first sip he looked completely perplexed.

"Is- is this some sort of Italian Roast?" he stammered. "Where did you get this?"

"It was a gift," Chuck explained, taking a sip from his own mug. It _was_ really good coffee—June had great taste. Unfortunately, from the way Bryce was reacting, he was already aware of that fact. So much for swerving around that problem…

Surprisingly, Bryce let the matter drop with a quiet, "Hmm," before he gave a little wave and headed down the hall towards his room.

Chuck let out a breath as he left the living room to take his work into the study. Two close calls in the span of minutes—it was tricky, but he'd secured the secret of his correspondence with June for at least a little bit longer. Now, if they could avoid any other incidents from there on out, that would be great.

Alas, this was Bryce Larkin. The peace lasted through the holidays, only for Chuck to find Bryce slumped half-dead against the dumpster behind the Buy More in mid-February.

. . .

June had just returned from a special screening of _Tiles of Fire_ at a nearby theater (strange, as she didn't think the series had _that_ much of a cult following) when she was greeted by the frantic ringing of her house phone. It was awfully late for a telemarketer to be calling, and most of her friends would wait until the daytime to speak with her. Whoever was calling likely didn't bear good news.

Heart pounding, June managed to compose herself enough to feign calm while picking up the receiver and announcing, "Ellington residence."

" _Oh, oh thank god,"_ the voice on the other end—a younger man, whose panicked tone made him sound almost childlike—breathed. _"You picked up. Uh, this_ is _June, right?"_

"I am," she confirmed, frowning slightly as she sat on the sofa. Though she didn't recognize the man's voice, he had asked for her by name, so she must have been a key component to resolving whatever had him in such distress.

" _Okay, good, good. Uh, this is Chuck… Carmichael, your pen pal with a mutual friend? You sent me your home phone number a while back just in case I needed to reach out in a more immediate way than a letter."_ He broke off with a nervous laugh, voice trembling. _"I wish our first conversation could have happened under better circumstances, but you see, there's been an incident with, ah, said mutual friend."_

A sinking feeling crept into June's stomach, and she was glad that she had taken a seat before Chuck delivered the news. "What happened?"

Chuck took a jagged breath. _"To be honest, we're not even sure yet. He'd just wrapped up an assignment in D.C., and he had been in transit back to California when he last checked in. I found him heavily beaten near our base a little while ago, and he's too delirious to say whether he was attacked upon his return or if he was stupid enough to travel before seeking proper medical attention."_ At that, he trailed off into a hysterical, choking gasp. _"Preliminary examination suggests that he's probably better off than he looks, barring potential internal bleeding, but… the last time I saw him severely injured, he_ died _in front of me. It was years ago and he's alive, but seeing him just threw me back, and all I can think about is how much time I spent resenting him—though some of it was understandable, even Bryce admits that—and how I had a chance to grow and finally make something of my life because of his sacrifice, while Bryce… he sort of got that chance too, but then he lost it all and he refuses to do anything to get it back. So now I'm here, hoping he'll survive long enough to regain the sense to reconnect with the Neal Caffrey part of his life, or simply just_ survive _for once."_

When communicating entirely through writing, it was sometimes easy for June to forget exactly how young Chuck was—yes, he was a thirty-something husband and father and CEO of his own private security firm, but to a widowed grandmother who'd played cards with Sy Devore himself, he was still decades short of being a distinguished gentleman. Letters could only do so much to convey the true nature of one's personality, especially when the content tended to regard a different topic than the writer's own life. Hearing Chuck's voice, especially during such a trying time, was enough to bring his youth into focus, and June's heart seized when she thought of everything he'd already been through and lost—at least, everything he'd told her, and most of it was what he'd experienced in regards to Neal.

She must have taken a long pause, because Chuck suddenly cleared his throat and sounded a bit embarrassed. _"Sorry, I didn't mean to drop all of that on you—what a way to spend our first conversation, am I right?"_ He let out a somewhat high-pitched chuckle, before he cleared his throat once again. _"Anyways, ah, the real reason I called was because of Bryce… Neal. I mentioned that he's a bit delirious right now, and he's not being very cooperative while we're trying to treat him. Sarah and I have tried talking to him, but he's not responding well to our voices, so I thought… I thought maybe having_ you _speak to him would help calm him down. He's out of it enough where he likely won't register his usual resistance to letting the Neal part of his life back in, but still lucid in the respect that he might actually listen to you. Either way, I thought it would be worth a try."_

"Of course," June responded as sincerely as she could for such a hasty answer—after Chuck's ashamed reaction to his breakdown, she didn't want to give him the chance to talk himself out of his own plan. "Of course I'll do it. It sounds like Neal needs as many people that care about him as possible right now, and I'd be happy to do my part."

" _Great, great!"_ Chuck sighed in relief. _"Let me just get him set up with an earpiece and transfer the call there..."_

June cut him off. "Before you do that… I want to thank you for calling me, Chuck, and not just because of Neal. It was good to be able to put a voice to the letters I've received, and I just want you to know that you're welcome to call anytime, not just when something's gone wrong, and if you ever need to talk about anything other than our friend, I will be here to listen."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, though it was soon disrupted by a sharp intake of air. _"I… thank you, June. I really appreciate it, and I'm glad that Bryce had someone like you in his life."_

Chuck's words trailed off with some shuffling, and it took a few more moments before another voice—this one sluggish and slurred and achingly familiar—spoke up. _"'Lo?"_

June let out a sigh as she broke into a sad smile. "Oh, Neal, what have you done now?"

" _June?"_ he mumbled, the word reaching a higher pitch even in his lethargic state. When she hummed an affirmative, he let out a long groan. _"Ugh, don' tell Moz or P'ter, mmkay? Y' see, I had… bit of an accident. Wasn' lookin', bad guys followed me from D.C.—both spy bad guys and con bad guys, like a super team-up. I put their buddies in prison as Bryce-me and Neal-me, so they were maaaaaddd… waited to ambush me 'til I got near base. Took 'em all down, though."_ He made exaggerated fighting noises at that. _"Think the p'lice got 'em, 'cause I was a wee bit woozy to call anyone else. Think I got slammed into a wall a couple times? One guy had a knife too—pretty one, but not pretty in my stomach, yikes."_

He went silent after that, and from the background noise and mutterings from Chuck's team that the receiver picked up, June could tell that Neal's consciousness was wavering—not a good sign. She scrambled to get his attention and keep him talking. "Well, at least you're in good hands now and you'll be healed up in no time. Just think about it—you could have pulled the Death Tile."

There was a snort of laughter at that, followed by a small moan of pain. _"Gah, hurts to laugh. But really, June,_ Tiles of Fire _? Chuck 'n I like lots of cult classics, but…_ Tiles of Fire _? Nooooooo…"_

( _"Speak for yourself,"_ Chuck grumbled in the background.)

"I'll let that slide because you've never seen it in theaters," June replied, smiling at the little hint of the old Neal she'd managed to coax out.

" _Mm, okay, maybe we'll do that sometime. Least I c'n do after ev'rythin' you did for me."_

Melancholy washed over June at that suggestion, but she forged ahead, keeping Neal occupied as the friends by his side patched him up. The procedure didn't take too long, and soon enough Chuck was back on the line.

" _He's stable,"_ he confirmed, voice tinged with relief. _"We gave him some painkillers and stitched him up, so now he's resting until we have to wake him for the first concussion check. We're also going to check on the guys who did this to him and figure out exactly what they're up to. Do you want me to keep you updated on his condition?"_

The question was so similar to the offer that Chuck had made in his very first letter, and June's response echoed her initial reply. "I'd greatly appreciate it, thank you."

The two pen pals exchanged a few more words before ending their first call with the promise of more in the future. While letters would still be their primary source of correspondence for information on their mutual friend, it wouldn't hurt to have other avenues of communication open for a casual chat.

A few days later, June received an envelope containing a smartphone with a connection to a secure line and a photo library of pictures taken during Neal's convalescence. Though he was bruised and bandaged, he was _alive_ , and June had Chuck to thank for that.

It seemed that her pen pal had a similar thought, for the final photo in the album featured Neal peacefully passed out on a couch, while another young man with short curly hair and a crooked smile stood in front of him, holding a sheet of printer paper:

 _He doesn't remember much about what happened that night, but you still had an effect—I caught him trying to research upcoming theatrical showings of_ Tiles of Fire _earlier today. I'll keep you posted on the results._

Well, that was another message that June would eagerly await.

. . .

 **A/N:** And to think the original idea for this was a last-minute add-on to a little segment of _FBYE_ , which spawned into this monster…

I can't say if there will be more of the June and Chuck side-story—I wasn't planning on continuing, but everything about this idea has been unplanned in some way. I'm planning to write Mozzie's story next, since it deserves a more elaborate adaptation than a simple summary in the author's notes. After that, I have one or two more ideas that are brand new to this particular universe that I would really like to tackle.

Until next time!

AQotL


End file.
